Your Illusive Eye
by emattbax
Summary: Eventually, Light decides it would be so much easier to kill L with a kitchen knife. In the end, L decides that the only thing he has left to do is kiss Light.  Because fantasies are so realistic, right?  What came out of this? Angst. Lots and lots of it.


a/n: I wrote this so long ago that I had to read it again to remember what it was about. So yeah...it's kinda sucky. Also: character death. DEATH BY KNIFE.

Onward, men.

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><p><span>Your Illusive Eye<span>

Why did he do it?

The one question I didn't want answered. On some level I already knew the answer.

He left a mark on my shirt, and a gash in my body. Where was the pain? Where were the hurt feelings, the lost desires built into a brick wall to come tumbling down on my victor?

I couldn't summon up the courage to shout, and break the bond we made together. This way would only cause him more sadness, but he probably deserved it, anyway.

Probably.

I acted on impulse, a gut reaction to the knife edge jutting out of my skin. I don't know why I did it, but it felt right, and it was a good way to go. A good closing speech to the irrevocably dramatic play that was my life.

In a way, he did me a favor. Now, I can let go of everything. Let go of the uncharacteristic emotions that he'd placed meticulously in the fibers of my daily routine. Let go of the constant dread that came with being with him; dread of losing him, dread that he would throw me away. Let go of the knowledge that he was a murderer, tainted with blood.

It pains me to think that I am just another victim. To think that the blood of another belongs to him. It's a perverse sense of jealousy that draws my hand upwards, to his face.

Finger painting was my childhood joy. To be allowed to cover yourself with paint and draw on a blank board that so resembles the surrounding walls was intoxicating.

They say life flashes before your eyes when you die. In my case, it isn't flashing. It's lingering – the past blurring into the now.

I painted a line on his skin. If I had more time, I would draw a more memorable souvenir of myself for him, but strength drops my hand to my side before I can try.

He belongs to me, now. My blood is on him, I've marked him as my own.

It's a shame I can't stick around to enjoy this slavery I've bestowed upon him.

It would be nice, if I could enjoy this one last sensation of his lips on mine. But I'm dying. Touch, sight and sound are failing me.

All I can do is taste sweet guilt on my lips, and the burning of his lust that will never be satisfied.

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><p>Why did he do it?<p>

One of many questions racing around my mind.

He left a mark on my face. He spoiled the perfect complexion of my skin. And for what? A pact, the evidence that he had indeed walked among the land of the living, and had tied himself to others in the time that he had.

He chained himself to me in life, and now the link refuses to break.

I planned this moment for years. I spent a quarter of my life devoted to the man, and his impending death.

And what for? A blemish on the perfect complexion of my skin, and the perfect reality of my life. There's blood on my cheek, and in my life. And it will never wash off.

I have a gift. I can walk through obstacles. Nothing can stop me when I get going, because I can just, deny it. Deny that there's something in my way. Deny it, and it disappears.

So really, when he came and stood in my way, he condemned himself to his own shortened mortality. And really, when he changed my mind for me, so that I was mentally conscious of wanting to just _stop_, he had absolutely zero affect on the ball that had started rolling and was gaining speed down a hill.

It just, rolled over him, like a speed bump.

I really and truly wanted to just, stop. Stop everything, and walk away. But I couldn't, because he was still there. Ruining my perfectly composed thoughts, ruining my face. There were several times when he painted my face a crude red. This time, I guess he wanted it to stay red.

His blood belongs to me. It always had, since the first time he did it. Now, I can truly say that I own it, that this is my blood. It's on my skin, so it's mine. I'll cherish it forever. I'll keep it, as a momentum of the questions that I'll never have answered.

Why did he do it? Why did he reach forward with a bloodied hand? Why did he lean on me? Why did he come to me in search of the comfort and hope that I stole? Why was his last movement one of love and happiness, when he had every right to hate me?

He had every right to hate me. He had an _obligation_ to hate me.

Instead, he kissed me. He kissed me once, and licked closed the envelope to seal our fate.

He kissed me last, and he sent it off.

Irreversibly, utterly, and truthfully gone.

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><p>an: Thanks for reading. Feedback encouraged. :)


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